


Hanging notes

by notveryhandy



Series: so here’s our song [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Other, Self-Doubt, The vault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notveryhandy/pseuds/notveryhandy
Summary: Missy plays. And she plays. And she plays. (If she stops, then she will crack.)
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Missy
Series: so here’s our song [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741708
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	Hanging notes

The Doctor rarely indulges criminals, but-

Oh, who is he kidding? Of course he does. That doesn’t mean he caves in _immediately,_ though. That doesn’t mean he takes one look at Missy and folds, doesn’t mean that he is anything approaching generous.

But then Missy is going stir-crazy, wound up and ready to unleash. It is possibly not a good idea to be staying in the Vault this much, as it is. (It has only been two decades. The clock has not ticked so much. And yet - already he tires.)

“I could learn to sing,” Missy murmurs into his shoulder. “Like back in the day. Or something different. Piano.”

She is barely awake and so the Doctor doesn't have to look her in the face and tell her no.

If she objects to being wrapped up so tight, well, she can take that out on Nardole. He doesn’t plan to stay until morning.

* * *

Pictures, as it turns out, are quite good at judging, and so he turns round the portraits on his desk and tries not to debate on morality at 8 am on a Thursday. He is not quite awake for that.

As it turns out, worriers are easy to find in St Luke’s University, because Nardole turns up with a pile of (unmarked, _fuck_ ) essays and a tremor in his voice, and the Doctor cannot help but bury his face in his hands. “Nardole, did I or did I not tell you to stay in the Vault?”

“Sir, she’s been wreaking havoc again! You can’t just wander off whenever you please, and leave me to clean up the mess!”

“I’m afraid I can do exactly that, Nardole.” He sighs. “You do realise we’re in the 70s right now?”

“Oh, are we?” Nardole asks, bemused. “I thought it was the 80s.”

“Well, anything can happen. What’s she up to now?”

“Keeps on asking for a _piano,_ sir. And some bants. What’s that, and what does it have to do with Cheeky Nando’s?”

“Say yes to the Nando’s and I will _think_ about the piano, but only if Missy behaves well.”

“Will do, sir.” Nardole’s leg squeak slightly. Rust, perhaps?

“Don’t forget to oil your joints! I’m fed up with you making so much noise,” the Doctor yells after him.

Whatever.

* * *

Missy is awake, and it is definitely the 80s now, so of course she’s humming some annoying ABBA song under her breath. “See,” says the Doctor, “this is why I don’t want to get you a piano.”

She looks offended, clutching a hand to her chest and gasping dramatically. “Doctor! What's wrong with ABBA?”

“Queen is better, and you _know_ it.”

“See, if you’d just give me your guitar-”

“No.” Someday he’s going to give in, he knows it.

“So you don’t trust me?”

A lie. Or true. Honestly, they could say anything of each other at this point. It doesn’t make much difference. If he stepped out these doors and found the right place he could meet an old (well, young, but you know, linguistics) Master. Turn left, turn right, maybe step out of reality for a moment.

It would be easy. It would also be horrendously selfish, and cruel to all Masters involved.

So no. Gods, time move slowly in here, doesn’t it?

* * *

So he does give in. So it’s the 90s. That, he supposes, probably says an awful lot. He can’t really be bothered to open that can of worms. (Or, knowing Missy, can of robot vipers. Possibly poisoned. Definitely stupid.)

Missy likes her piano. Maybe too much. Has been playing for the last few hours, clumsy with a body that doesn’t remember music like that, one more used to dancing than to _creating_ music. It’s clumsy. Unusually so, for the Master.

Not in a bad way, not really. The notes are rough, and coarse, and somehow solid. Missy is not a fan of failure. One time she hits a too-high key and winces, and stumbles - she thinks the Doctor is staring, judging. (Perhaps he is.) 

It’s enjoyable. It’s different. It’s odd to see life breathed into this room.

For a giant tomb, Missy is living a lot.

* * *

Missy is not looking at him. She has been up all night, and there is blood on the piano.

“Missy.”

He tries not to shout, or at least not to panic. “Missy.”

She barely notices, still playing on in a daze.

“ _Missy._ ”

She turns around, eyes unglazing slightly. “You’re back.”

“Yeah. How long-”

The Doctor breaks off, looking at her tinged red hands and cracked nails. “How long have you been playing?”

She smiles, eyes hollow. Face expressionless. “I don’t know. A while.”

“Why, Missy? You’ve been playing too long, you need to look after yourself!”

She shrugs. “It was pretty, Doctor. All that music floating in the air. Those flying melodies.”

She pauses, and takes her hands off the piano. Stops playing. “Lovely hanging notes.”

The Doctor sighs. “Yes, but why?”

She does not respond.

* * *

Missy stares from the centre of the bed. It’s elaborate, ornate - and bare. Spartan. Like everything else in this room, it has so little personality. Missy may as well be on fire compared to the iciness of the Vault.

“Did you sleep?”

She shakes her head. Her voice is rough, hoarse. Her hair is piled on top of her head with unusual carelessness. “I didn't want to hurt anyone.”

The Doctor winces. “Missy, the only person you’re hurting is yourself.”

“Maybe.” She pulls a thin sheet over her knees. “I wanted to learn to play.”

“You played beautifully.”

And it’s true. Missy looks up- 

Of course, she’s disbelieving. “If I stay awake all the time then I can watch myself, can’t I?”

He sighs. “Let me help you. I think I should stay here for a bit, I haven’t been around much recently.”

“And I’ll play the piano.”

“Yes, but first you should get some rest. You’re... quite the impressive pianist now.”

She smirks. “I’m never anything but good.”

And there, he thinks, the old light. “Well that’s what we’re all hoping for, isn’t it?”

The Doctor turns to see Missy has fallen asleep. Smiles, slightly.

This time, he promises himself, he’ll stay.

(Missy wakes up to an empty bedroom, but then that is how it always is. The Vault is quiet for a long while afterwards.)


End file.
